Burnt Norton (18 page)

‘I haven’t stopped dancing with you; but of course, if you wish.’

‘I do wish, quite definitely, like every other man in this room.’ And when he led her onto the floor, she knew they were being admired. When the last country dance was over and the small orchestra packed away their instruments, Dorothy turned to her partner.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘we are the last to go. The fiddlers are leaving, the flautist has gone and even the harp is being packed away. It’s time to go home.’

Over the following weeks, Thomas, Gilbert and Dorothy were constant companions. When he met Elizabeth, he was attentive towards her, engaging her in conversation, and pushing her mind beyond the parameters of her restricted daily life. Dorothy watched gratefully.

Dorothy’s relationship with Gilbert flourished. When Thomas asked his friend to extend his stay, Dorothy was glad. She appreciated his company; she liked challenging herself intellectually. She decided that life as the future Lady Paxton-Hooper could be extremely comfortable. It seemed even her grandmother approved of the relationship: when Lady Tracy summoned them to a ball at Stanway, Gilbert was on the guest list.

Elizabeth, who hadn’t been out socially since the accident, at first refused.

‘I can’t go to a ball,’ she said. ‘You know it’s impossible.’

‘But it’s family. We’ll pick you up on the way; you won’t be left alone, not even for a minute,’ Dorothy pleaded.

‘I wouldn’t come in the coach with you,’ Elizabeth said finally, ‘but I will come. There is, however, a condition attached. Lorenzo, with whom I am familiar, will carry me into the ball, and likewise he will come inside to collect me when I wish to go home.’ Dorothy, who hadn’t considered this possibility, felt the colour flooding her cheeks. She would have to see Lorenzo. It was unavoidable. For a moment her equilibrium was shattered. She could feel the panic building in her chest.

‘Of course, I’ll write a note to our grandmother,’ she said.

Dorothy needed a dress and she needed it quickly. There were several seamstresses in Stratford, and after finding one willing to undertake the task within the allotted time, she chose a cream organza, with lilac silk for the trimmings.

‘I must look beautiful,’ she insisted, as the seamstress pinned her into the muslin toile. ‘And cut the bodice lower.’ Dorothy refused to consider the reason behind her vanity.

On the night of the ball, as The College coachman drove them to Stanway, Dorothy sat quietly. The dress was a work of art – of that there was no doubt. The silk violets encircling the bodice picked up the colour in her eyes, and the wide hooped skirt trimmed with the same violets swayed gently as she moved. Even her hair was for once immaculate, the dark curls tamed and woven with fresh flowers. For the first time in her life Dorothy felt entirely beautiful, but it gave her little satisfaction. She stepped down, her breathing impeded by her restricting bodice and by her own agitation. She would see Lorenzo. Walking up the stairs, she recognized with dismay that her happiness could so easily be destroyed. Why couldn’t she forget Lorenzo and be content with the young man at her side?

They were in the packed ballroom when she saw him, carrying Elizabeth. The crowds parted to let them through. Lorenzo lowered Elizabeth into one of the gilded French chairs that had been placed along the walls. Dorothy made her way towards them. ‘Hello, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Lorenzo.’

‘Miss Dorothy.’ His reply was curt but Dorothy knew that nothing had changed. She sat beside her sister and her mother, refusing to leave them until supper was announced. In deference to Elizabeth a buffet was laid out in the dining room, and Dorothy went to choose for them both. Every kind of creation was displayed on the table. There was venison from the deer park and swan dressed in aspic. There were trifles and jellies and cheeses. After making her selection she returned to the ballroom. Only after they had finished eating and the footman had cleared away their plates did she agree to dance with Gilbert.

Towards the end of the ball her grandmother took her aside. ‘You will dance a solo; the
sarabande pour femme
from Lully’s
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme.
I have the music here.’

It was not a question, it was an order, and Dorothy, whose dancing master came on the recommendation and on the generosity of her grandmother, could only comply. She stepped onto the floor and waited for the harpsichord to begin. Normally she would have relished the opportunity to show off the intricate and complicated steps her dance master had taught her, but tonight when the orchestra started to play her mind was elsewhere. When Lorenzo entered the ballroom to collect Elizabeth, Dorothy saw him out of the corner of her eye. She realized she had been waiting for him. She was now dancing for Lorenzo:
coupé
,
pas de courante
, pirouette. The graceful lift of her arms, the lightness of her feet, the tilt of her head, all for Lorenzo. When the harpsichord finally stopped playing and her dance came to an end, she curtsied and raised her eyes. Lorenzo was looking straight towards her. Their eyes met. Moments later he was gone, carrying Elizabeth to the awaiting coach. Elizabeth waved to her sister.

‘Goodnight, Dotty; that was wonderful, thank you.’

Dorothy was bereft; the evening was over, and she knew she could never love Gilbert in the way that she loved Lorenzo.

When Gilbert had returned to his house in Surrey, Dorothy was at first relieved; she couldn’t marry him, it would be unfair to them both, but during the long winter months these sentiments changed. His letters, full of amusing and eloquent anecdotes, gave her an insight into his life, and how different hers could be, with him. She would be mistress in her own home. On the death of Gilbert’s elderly father, she would become Lady Paxton-Hooper. When in the spring of the following year Gilbert returned to The College and declared his intentions, Dorothy accepted his proposal. It was the wise and sensible option. She hoped that marriage to this charming and suitable man would cure the ache in her heart.

Lorenzo, she knew, would not share in her expectations.

March 1739

Molly sat in the old winter sitting room, her feet tucked beneath her. For all the grandeur of the new mansion, this remained her favourite place. Her cheeks were pink from the fire, and with a book in her hand and the two dogs on the floor beside her, she should have been content. They had moved into their new apartments. She was now, in every sense of the word, mistress of her own home. She had every reason to be happy, but the hatred she had seen in Dorothy’s face haunted her.

And something else was wrong, too. The nights Sir William lingered in his dressing room, hunched over the figures – the nights he didn’t come to bed at all.

Elizabeth had made an innocent remark: ‘Thomas made a property in Stratford over to Papa, something to do with the bank, I believe. Wasn’t that considerate? They seem to be getting on well at last.’ Molly had worried at the time, a nagging feeling of disquiet that wouldn’t go away, and only a few weeks later, she made her own awful discovery.

‘I will have a tray in my study,’ William said, declining supper. ‘Come and say goodnight before you go to bed.’

When Molly knocked there was no answer; she quietly opened the door. William was asleep at his desk, a document spread before him, a pen in his outstretched hand. As she bent to retrieve an empty glass, the words he had been writing caught her eye:

I, Thomas Charles Edward Keyt, convey the remaining third of the house known as ‘The College’ in Stratford-upon-Avon, to my father, Sir William Keyt, Baronet, as security against the loan on Norton House.

At first it appeared to be another deed, Thomas signing over yet more property to his father, but on closer inspection, the ink on the signature was not yet dry. Sir William was stealing from his son.

1739

For a short while, William, Elizabeth and Molly lived quietly in their new home. Molly hoped that a peaceful and simple existence would avert calamity, but sadly it didn’t last. In late spring plans began for a grand celebration. Magnificent invitations on thick, embossed cards were sent out, and as the day drew nearer Norton buzzed with activity. Additional gardeners were employed, and while they pruned and weeded and filled up the beds, an army of servants polished the house.

Elizabeth went through the menus. Syllabubs were tried and tested on the household, and jellies were set. The blacksmith made a mould in the shape of the new mansion. Extra maids worked in the kitchens. Linen was pressed, silver polished, and glasses rinsed and rinsed again. No expense was spared. There were questions and decisions: would guinea fowl in port wine be appropriate, or stuffed roasted pigeon in pastry, and jellied venison? In the end, it was agreed on both.

‘This will be my greatest achievement,’ Elizabeth said as she counted the replies. ‘I have done so little in my life, but at least now I shall have done this.’ Molly could only smile in agreement. Her friend had never understood money, and it was too late to teach her.

That evening, Molly was thinking about Elizabeth’s words when William entered the bedroom. He pulled her towards him. ‘Darling, will you stay with me if I’m penniless?’ To Molly, he sounded like a drowning man.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I think I may have lost everything. I’m a fool for not sharing this with you before, and now it’s too late. I can’t tell Elizabeth. She has so little; I only wished to make up for her loss.’

‘I’ll never leave you, William,’ she replied, feeling suddenly defensive of him. ‘Never,’ she repeated, surprised at the strength of her emotion.

‘Come here,’ he said, pulling her gratefully towards him and burying his face in her hair. As the sweet scent of jasmine filled his lungs, his misery disappeared, replaced with other sensations. ‘Though I like your dress, I’d much prefer you without it,’ he said gruffly, his lips moving to her neck.

On the fifth of August, the festivities began with champagne and canapés to the strains of George Frideric Handel’s Water Music. As dusk fell, guests were invited to make their way to the theatre. At precisely eight o’clock, five hundred candles were lit in the circular pool, and when the guests were seated, the fountains were turned on, extinguishing the candles with their spray and plunging the pool into darkness. Fireworks lit the sky with blazes of colour. After a short concert, the guests were invited to supper.

The evening was Elizabeth’s triumph. The cooks surpassed themselves, and William’s cellar was emptied. The jellied sculptures of the new mansion caused a considerable stir, and Elizabeth, dressed in a gown of the palest lavender silk, was showered with compliments. George Cartwright stayed by her side.

Molly could not share in Elizabeth’s pleasure. She had expected Thomas, but not the sophisticated Miss Lucy who arrived on his arm. Molly greeted them brightly. She shouldn’t care.

Though William was attentive, the guests, for all their pretty smiles and fine words, gossiped. ‘So that’s his whore?’

‘Well, she opened her legs and emptied his purse.’

When the last guest had departed, William lifted his tired, elated daughter into his arms.

‘My darling, I hope the evening was everything you wished for?’

‘Papa, it has been the happiest evening of my life, thank you – and thank you, Molly, for being my friend.’

Those small words of appreciation drew Molly and William together, and in the dark years that followed they would have cause to remember them again.

1740

Spring had just begun, yet Elizabeth didn’t have the energy to enjoy it.

‘Molly, I am going to stay in bed today. I’ll be better tomorrow.’ Her pallor and the dark smudges beneath her eyes told otherwise.

‘What’s wrong with Lizzie? She looks so fragile,’ William asked.

‘She’s tired. For the last three years she has had so much to plan and organize. Sleep is the greatest healer.’

‘This is my fault; I can see I asked too much of her.’

Molly touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You did nothing of the sort; she loved being part of it all.’

‘I pray you are right,’ he said.

While Lizzie tried to regain her strength, Letitia became her constant companion.

‘I like to have her on the bed. Father won’t mind?’

‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’ Molly smiled.

When she finally asked if Mr Cartwright had called in to see her, Molly resorted to a small lie. ‘He’s very busy with work on his new project. Your father had word this morning; he’ll be in touch soon.’

But in a small community gossip travels fast, and Molly soon heard news of Mr Cartwright.

‘I never liked the look of him,’ said Ruth. ‘He was sucking up to you all, and making sheep’s eyes at poor Miss Elizabeth. And now we hear he’s engaged.’

Molly was appalled. ‘What do you mean? Who is he engaged to?’ she asked.

‘I’ve always got my ear to the ground, and Sarah over at Armscote says that he’s got hitched to one of the daughters at the big house. Apparently he’ll get five hundred pounds. The bugger, I could kill him.’

‘Ruth, I’d be grateful if you’d keep this information to yourself.’

As Molly walked back to Elizabeth’s bedroom, she realized she could never tell her. If Elizabeth became aware of the engagement, she didn’t say, but she never spoke of Mr Cartwright again.

On a hot afternoon in early August, Molly pushed Elizabeth into the wild garden.

When they came to the foot of the oak tree, Elizabeth shut her eyes. ‘I wish to imprint every inch of this garden on my mind,’ she said, as they reflected on the beauty before them.

‘Listen to me, dearest,’ she continued, catching Molly’s hand. ‘My time is running out. Don’t turn away, and don’t look so sad.’ She pulled up her skirts to reveal her poor wasted legs. ‘My body will not survive another winter. No, please don’t interrupt. You are my friend, and I’ve grown increasingly fond of you, and I must say this now. I know my father has not always been a gentleman towards you, but I am convinced that he now loves you truly, and I hope that he has made up for his mistakes.’